


leave that slip on the floor

by junes_discotheque



Series: (trust me) i can take you there [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Butt Plugs, Crossdressing Kink, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Humiliation, Lingerie, M/M, Verbal Humiliation, mild exhibitionism, mild public humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to 'that dress you like'. The fifth primary debate, and what happened after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the debate hosts so far, CNN is, objectively, the _worst._

For one, their lights are so blinding he can’t see his own hands, much less the notecards his staff prepared for him.

For another, their podiums are transparent.

And that’s only the issues compounding his current-- _situation._ The theme of this debate is ‘questions from around social media’, with Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Tumblr, and even _Pinterest_ getting in on the action.

Frankly, Burr thinks, as a twenty-one-year-old white girl with gray hair pinned up under a flower crown lowballs a question about imported textiles, this debate would be _more_ coherent if CNN just pulled questions from the YouTube comments on the debate promo clips. Next to him, Jefferson is answering the question smoothly, his smile full-on charming, and the girl--who has ‘ _I didn’t care about politics until the precise moment Thomas Jefferson announced he was running’_ practically tattooed on her face--looks a little dazed. Jefferson finishes with a wink.

“Did that answer your question?” Wolf asks her. Burr caught approximately none of Jefferson’s answer, but he’s pretty sure it didn’t.

“Uh huh,” the girl says. She flashes a heart sign with her hands before dissolving into CNN’s logo.

Burr glances over at Jefferson, who’s watching him with deceptively soft eyes.

God fucking help him if CNN puts one of Jefferson’s Tumblr fangirls on screen.

\-  -  -

_52 minutes earlier_

There’s a knock on the door of his green room.

Burr’s hands twitch and his carefully-organized notecards scatter over the end table. He takes a deep breath--the entire lead up to this debate has been an unmitigated disaster (the notecards are actually the third variation, after the first got lost and the second got set on fire) but it’s almost time. Less than an hour. He can manage.

One of his security detail sticks his head in. “Senator Burr? Vice President Jefferson is here to--speak with you.”

Or maybe he _can’t._

“Send him in, thanks, Ruiz,” he says. He hears the agent mutter " _Reyes"_ under his breath as Jefferson brushes past and into the room, his curls loose around his face and his shoulders broad in a plaid burgundy jacket. His white shirt gapes open at the neck, the first two buttons undone and exposing the clean line of his throat down to his chest, like he has absolutely no intention of wearing a tie, and Burr still feels almost underdressed in his own plain black suit and blue-gray tie. Jefferson shuts the door with no care to the crumbling drywall and flicks the lock. Burr swallows. “Mr. Vice President?”

His voice shakes. Cracks on the last syllable. Jefferson grins, eyes crinkling, and Burr barely has time to gulp nervously before Jefferson’s hands are on him, grabbing at the lapels of his suit jacket and shoving him against the round table in the middle of the room. His lips swallow the startled yelp that tears itself out of Burr’s mouth, replacing it with his tongue. Burr’s hips jerk forward, skimming the front of his pants against Jefferson’s thigh and failing to get any kind of pressure on his soft cock.

“Eager?” Jefferson whispers against his lips, and Burr can feel him smirking. “I’m afraid we don’t have time to see to you _properly_ , honey.”

Burr makes a fully embarrassing whining noise and leans forward, brushing his mouth against Jefferson’s, encouraging. _Time_ and _Properly_ have never been concerns; not since Jefferson dragged Burr into a supply closet half an hour before the first debate and fucked his mouth so hard he spent the entire night sounding like he was recovering from laryngitis.

Jefferson sighs and rolls his eyes, like it physically pains him to indulge Burr, and kisses him again, _harder,_ and it’s all Burr can do to curl his tongue against Jefferson’s and let himself be taken.

No one has ever kissed him like Jefferson kisses him.

He’s struggling to stay upright, one hand bracing himself on the table and the other clutching at Jefferson’s hip as he tilts his head back. Jefferson’s got nearly half a foot on him, and he _uses_ it, crowding and trapping him, forcing him to strain upwards.

Jefferson flicks open the button on Burr’s pants and untucks his shirt. Slides his fingers down past the waistband of his boxer-briefs, searching.

He freezes and draws away, slowly, straightening and staring down at Burr with a solid, unreadable expression. His hand is still down Burr’s pants.

It takes a second for Burr’s brain to catch up, and when it does--

_Shit._

“Honey,” Jefferson says, carefully, like he’s straining to control his anger. “You’re not wearing my gifts.”

Burr screws his eyes closed and thinks of the box still sitting, unopened, on his hotel bed. “I--”

Jefferson digs his nails into the soft, sensitive skin of Burr’s lower belly, inches above his cock. “No,” he snaps. “No excuses.” A beat. He softens, rubbing the hurt away. “Did you not like them?”

A breath catches in Burr’s throat. He shakes his head furiously. “No, no, it’s not--they were beautiful. _Really_.” He’s guessing. But Jefferson’s taste hasn’t been wrong yet. Everything he’s chosen for Burr has been perfect. It’s just. “It’s just--the debate tonight, I--I didn’t want to be distracted.”

It’s not the truth, not the _whole_ truth, and second he says it, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Jefferson’s eyes narrow. “Distracted,” he says. Hums quietly as he leans in and gives Burr a gentle peck on his lips. “Okay, honey. I can understand that.”

Burr’s shoulders sag in relief. He won’t have to explain the rest of it. Jefferson will accept that he didn’t want to have to attend the most important debate of his career to date wearing--whatever it was that Jefferson wanted him to wear. And Burr won’t have to explain the push and pull between _I want what you do to me_ and _I just don’t know if I should._

His relief is short lived.

Jefferson spins him around and bends him over the table. Burr lets out a startled grunt, which quickly turns into a soft groan as Jefferson grips the back of his neck and rolls his hips against Burr’s ass.

“I thought--” Burr chokes, blinking rapidly against the cheap particle board table. His fingers clutch the opposite end. He tries to breathe. Jefferson is slowly working his pants down over his ass, leaving them to pool over his feet. “I thought we didn’t have _time_.”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Jefferson says, sliding Burr’s boxers off as well, stroking his thumbs over Burr’s ass. It’s _disappointing,_ Burr realizes, struck by how suddenly and how _desperately_ he wants Jefferson to fuck him.

But then the air is shifting, and he feels Jefferson’s hair brush against his bared skin, and Burr can hardly breathe--he wouldn’t--Jefferson _hasn’t,_ and they don’t--but Jefferson’s hands are spreading his ass, and--

There’s a sudden wetness, and he realizes, after a moment of shock, that Jefferson _spit_ on him. He squirms, unable to shake the feeling of being so _filthy,_ even though Jefferson has used spit before.

Jefferson said he wasn’t going to fuck him, so Burr’s still not sure what Jefferson’s intending--it can’t be too elaborate, they don’t have _time._

“I had one more present to give to you tonight,” Jefferson says, casual, like he’s not on his knees, eye-level with Burr’s ass. He presses a finger in, slowly, and Burr groans and rises up on his toes, fighting to relax. “I was going to leave it with the others, but I wanted it to be a _surprise._ As it happens, I have it with me.”

Two fingers now, burning. The spit isn’t nearly enough, Jefferson might as well be fucking him dry, and he’s avoiding Burr’s prostate.

He’s almost-- _almost--_ accustomed to the feeling when they pull away, and Burr panics for about half a second before something else is pushing against him. Cold. Metal. Opening him up and then--

“Oh,” Burr gasps out. Shifts a little, testing it.

It’s large enough that there’s no way he’ll be able to forget it’s there, and at the same time small enough that even with so little prep and no lube, it doesn’t hurt.

He’s shaking when Jefferson helps him up and moves him over to the full-length mirror. “Look at yourself, honey,” Jefferson says, pushing him until he’s turned with his back to the mirror and urging his head around to look. “Aren’t you pretty.”

The flared base of the plug is adorned with a ruby crystal, glinting in the fluorescent lighting, sparkling, nestled in Burr’s ass. He bites his lip.

“Well?”

“Very pretty,” he says, tearing his eyes away and staring at the buttons of Jefferson’s jacket instead. “Thank you.”

Jefferson laughs. The sound isn’t cruel, which Burr isn’t sure is any better, and he drops back to his knees. “You earned it,” he says.

Burr has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, so he doesn’t say anything as Jefferson re-dresses him. His dick is half-hard, and it jerks in Jefferson’s clinical grip as he tucks it back into Burr’s underwear. _Another predicament,_ he thinks, flushing at the realization--he’d been so distracted by the plug he’d forgotten--

“There,” Jefferson says, as he finishes buttoning Burr back into his suit. He stands, curls a hand around the back of Burr’s neck, and draws him in. Doesn’t kiss him, just holds him, drawing out the moment and watching Burr ache.

Someone’s pounding at the door.

 _“Mr. Vice President, Senator Burr, ten minutes.”_ Burr recognizes the voice and wishes he didn’t.

“I’ll come to you,” Jefferson says, hovering over him for a second longer, adjusting the dimple of his tie. “Good luck.” This said with a smirk, and a toss of his hair, and he slides his hands into his pockets and walks out while Burr gapes.

He catches a glimpse of Jefferson’s campaign manager as he leaves, catches the knowing little wink, and then he’s alone. The stillness is a weight on his shoulders, and the hum of the air conditioner seems to mock him, and it doesn’t matter how long he’s known Maria Reynolds knows everything, the reminder always manages to disorient him.

He gathers up his notecards, takes a deep, steadying breath, and walks.

It takes five steps for it to hit him exactly what Jefferson’s done.

\-  -  -

There’s still time.

Burr’s makeup artist finishes with a little flourish and tugs the protective papers off his shoulders, just as a ponytailed CNN intern with a headset and about a dozen wires running down her chest pushes the door open and says, “Ten minutes, Senator.”

Ten minutes, he’s come to understand, typically means closer to twenty. The debates never start on time, and there’s always at least five minutes of introductions and debate rules (which are then repeated after the candidates walk out) and even if ten minutes really meant ten minutes, the debate would never start without one of the frontrunners.

So, there’s still time. He can take the plug out, tuck it in his laptop bag, and put it in again once he’s back in his hotel room. Jefferson won’t know.

_Jefferson will know._

But that’s not why he straightens his jacket over the (blessedly, _miraculously_ ) flat front of his pants and walks out, plug still firmly in place. Jefferson’s made no threats, and Burr feels no obligation from him to obey. The only obligation is from himself.

He wants to be _good._

He’s _desperate_ to be good, in fact, _burns_ with it, has been squirming all afternoon with the decision to leave Jefferson’s gift in his hotel room. The plug is distracting, yes, and he’s not sure how it will affect his performance in the debate, but the world is righted.

And so, crossing his fingers and praying he doesn’t come to regret his choice, Aaron Burr (very carefully) follows his entourage of security and advisors and media interns (both CNN and campaign) down the hall to staging. He thinks his walk looks normal, and any oddness he might be able to pass off as simply the awkwardness of trying to walk surrounded by people.

The front of Burr’s jacket isn’t quite long enough to hide a bulge. It’s fine enough for now, because the stimulation is minimal, but he’s not sure what the situation will be like after wearing the plug for two hours. He hopes that if he stays still enough, he’ll be able to forget it’s there. Hopes, but doubts.

Burr catches a glimpse of Jefferson, looking smug and entirely too comfortable. Jefferson’s shirt is buttoned now, and he’s wearing a navy knit tie in a full Windsor knot at his throat. Maria’s next to him, and he’s so much taller than her that he needs to bend down slightly to listen to whatever she’s saying. She holds up a rubber band and looks at him expectantly. Jefferson shakes his head, his curls bouncing around his face. Burr watches as she heaves a sigh and tucks the band back into her pocket, rolling her eyes.

Jefferson’s adjusting his cufflinks now. Burr wonders which ones they are--he hadn’t seen Jefferson wearing any before, but then, he’d been distracted. Maria’s dragged away by a blond, varsity-quarterback CNN intern, and Jefferson doesn’t look up.

“Senator Burr?”

A tiny girl with cherry-red hair materializes at his elbow. She taps her earpiece, waves across the room, and grins at him. “Ready to line up?” she asks.

He gestures widely. “Please, lead the way,” he says. She gives him a bit of a funny look, but leads him away, still waving across the room--now adding in an occasional jump to be seen over the crowd. He hears a laughing cough beside him and glances over to see Jefferson, watching him and the CNN girl. He tosses Burr a wink. Burr looks away, fighting the rising heat in his cheeks.

“Thirty seconds,” someone calls. Jefferson slides in line behind Burr, casually resting a hand against his hip.

Burr shudders at the touch, then freezes when he hears Jefferson’s voice, right against his ear.

“I’m so proud of you, honey,” Jefferson whispers, as the candidate in front of Burr walks onto the stage to lukewarm applause. “You’re still wearing it. You’re so good for me. I want you to remember that, when Wolf asks you about your climate plan. I want you to feel that plug inside you, and I want you to remember you’re wearing it for _me._ I want you to clench down on it and know it can never fill you like I fill you, and I want you to feel empty even though you’re so full.”

Burr doesn’t whimper. He _doesn’t_. He hears his name called and tries to step forward. The plug inside him shifts. Jefferson's still holding onto him.  _His name was called, he has to move._

Jefferson’s hand rubs his hip gently. “It’s okay, honey. Because when this is over? When I get you back to your room?

I’m gonna make sure you’re filled the way you need.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Well this got longer. I apologize for being slow; chronic pain is a bitch.)

All things considered, the debate isn’t awful.

Sure, the questions are mostly asinine, but Burr isn’t hit with anything he hasn’t answered a few dozen times already, and Wolf Blitzer’s moderating is more focused on the twenty-somethings with webcams and Agendas than it is on the candidates themselves. He cuts the kids off before they can finish their follow-ups, and then moves on as quickly as possible. So Burr just has to make sure he sticks to his talking points, doesn’t say more than absolutely necessary, and of course, stays standing.

The standing is the hardest part.

Half an hour in and he’s already sore, and he’s starting to pray to God that the social media kids are more interested in challenging Jefferson than trying to get answers out of him. For the most part, God answers his prayers, and Burr’s lobbed a few questions about his climate plan and his views on military spending. His responses aren’t spectacular, but they’re solid, and he’s nearly positive he’s not contradicting anything he’s already said.

And best of all, he doesn’t fall over. Burr’s knuckles are white where he grips the podium, but he’s standing. He tries to focus on the next question, aimed at Madison. Everyone knows he isn’t going to make it past Iowa and at this point the debates are mostly a forum to criticize his record as Speaker of the House.

Really, he thinks he’s been too harsh on these kids. Their questions aren’t any worse than the ones from the ‘professional’ moderators and if they’re going to be asked the same fifty questions over and over it’s at least nice to be asked by someone who isn’t just trying to get a soundbite or gaffe to beat into the ground for the next twenty-four-hour cycle.

It’s exactly the kind of thing his Theo would _love_ to do, if she weren’t the daughter of a candidate, and if she weren’t busy with school. He’s fine with that. It’s her first year of college, after all, and he’s always pushed Theo to consider her education her highest obligation. Guilting her for not joining him on the campaign trail would just be hypocritical.

She’s promised to come out for Iowa, though.

“Senator Burr?” The tiny redhead from before is at his elbow. “We’re taking a commercial break. Five minutes, if you want to--talk to your staff, or--whatever.”

His mouth is dry. His water glass is empty. He hopes someone will be by to refill it.

In the hall, he passes the other candidates tucked in huddles with their advisors. His own staff is hanging out by the north wall. Burr waves at them, then points away down the hall in a series of gestures he hopes conveys _‘go on without me, going to take a piss’_. He’s not sure it worked, but nobody follows him.

Nobody’s in the bathroom either, though the fact that the door’s currently flanked by Secret Service might have something to do with it. He collapses against the door of the nearest stall and tries to breathe, tries to convince himself that--

No. No, he can’t make it another hour, much less the post-debate glad-handing, or the postmortem meetings, or the spin, or the car ride to his hotel. He needs this thing _out_.

He reaches for the latch.

A hand covers his.

 _“Please,”_ Burr says (gasps, whines). He screws his eyes shut, not wanting to see Jefferson’s fingers curling around his, or the crisp lines of his suit, or the sharp look in his eyes.

“You were going to take it out.” Jefferson’s voice is flat.

“I can’t do it.” Burr shakes his head, desperate for Jefferson to _understand._ “It’s too much.”

Jefferson drops his hand, and for a moment, Burr trembles with the lack of contact. Then the hand’s back, tilting his chin up, stroking gently over his cheekbones. “Look at me.”

Burr opens his eyes. Jefferson’s expression is soft. A breath catches in his throat as he trembles under Jefferson’s quiet scrutiny.

“You’ve been so good,” Jefferson murmurs. The rumble of his voice sends little shockwaves through Burr’s chest. “I’m so pleased with you, Aaron. I’d like you to wear it a little longer for me, okay? Just a little longer. And then I’ll take care of you.”

“How--” Burr chokes a little, rubbing his cheek minutely against Jefferson’s hand. He’d forfeit the debate right now, if it meant Jefferson would fuck him. But he knows Jefferson; knows the man would never reward him for that, and would likely never touch him again. “How much longer?”

“Just until the end of the debate. You can do that, I’m sure. And then I’ll help you take it out. Give you a little rest, until I come for you later.”

He can do that. He can be good and wear the plug until the end of the debate. He keeps looking at Jefferson’s face, searching for some kind of deception, but he doesn’t think there’s any. He’s pretty sure. Jefferson’s still looking him with that same expression, somewhere between concerned and _blank,_ which is unnerving but not necessarily malicious. Burr wants to be good. He wants to do this for Jefferson.

“Aaron?”

“Yeah,” Burr says. He coughs. “I mean, yes, I can.”

Jefferson smiles and rewards him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him in close, fucking his tongue into Burr’s mouth. Burr sighs and melts against him, letting him take as much as he wants. He presses his hip against Jefferson and grinds slowly against him. He can feel Jefferson’s dick through their clothes, slowly filling out, and he moans against Jefferson’s lips.

A sharp knock on the door sends Jefferson jumping backwards like a shot. For a brief, horrible moment, Burr is dizzy with the possibility of _getting caught--_ how has he not thought of this before--but nobody comes in. Instead, he hears a muffled, _“Sir, they’re back in one minute.”_ Jefferson is hastily fixing his jacket, arranging the folds over the noticeable bulge in his suit pants. His smirk is back, meaner than usual, and he steps in close again. Burr tilts his chin up.

“That was _not_ good,” Jefferson says. He taps Burr sharply on the cheek.

Burr’s still standing there long after Jefferson has been swept away by his Secret Service detail and staff. His face is burning. It wasn’t hard enough to be a slap and barely even stung, but his cheek is warm and he aches.

The redhead pokes her head into the bathroom. “Senator?”

Burr takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, and lets her rush him back through the crowd and onto the stage. They’re late, but the cameras seem to have been entirely focused on Wolf Blitzer giving a ‘recap’ of the ‘action’ and likely nobody but those in the theater realized Burr is slow getting back.

Jefferson doesn’t even look at him.

He tells himself it’s fine. He tries not to think about how sore he is, how much it’ll hurt later when Jefferson pushes his cock into Burr’s swollen hole.

God, he’s _empty._

\-  -  -

Jefferson is merciful.

The debate ends, the _‘standing around and waving’_ portion takes longer than ever, and Burr nearly collapses when finally he’s out of sight of cameras and reporters. His staff is doing spin. He won’t be called upon to defend his remarks (if he made remarks that need defending) until tomorrow, and his staff has promised to allow him to sleep in. They’ve seen how ragged he’s been the last few weeks. And they’re not idiots.

His knees actually _do_ give out in the hallway back to his green room, and he braces himself for the fall. It doesn’t come.

An arm is wrapped around his waist and Jefferson’s voice is in his ear. “Careful, Senator,” he says. “I can’t have you hurting your knees now; I intend to have you on them later.”

Burr wants to respond, but the words aren’t coming. His throat is tight and he can’t take one more step, not with the plug still inside him, making the slightest movement agony. His cock has been soft for awhile.

He hears Jefferson sigh above him. “Alright. We can use mine,” he says, as he helps Burr wrap an arm around his shoulders and nearly lifts him off the floor. He can feel the hard plane of Jefferson’s stomach against his softer one, and he swallows a moan at Jefferson’s broad hand braced against his hip, fingers brushing over his shirt under his suit jacket.

Jefferson walks him twenty feet down the hall, past two more doors, before setting him down and opening the door to his green room. Burr’s vaguely aware that the room is bigger and nicer than his own, but he can’t make out much else about it. There’s a table, and a vanity, and a couch against the wall. Jefferson helps him over to the last one.

The arm of the couch is more comfortable than bending over the table would be, but he still whimpers pitifully as Jefferson pushes him down, hand unyielding on the small of his back, as the plug jostles horribly inside him. Jefferson’s making little gentling noises, cooing sweetly as he unbuckles Burr’s pants and eases them down over his legs. Burr’s boxers follow, and Jefferson rubs his ass encouragingly.

“That’s it. Breathe, honey,” Jefferson says, taking hold of the base of the plug and _pulling_.

Burr muffles his scream with his arm just in time. The pressure is bad enough but it’s _nothing_ on the burn, on how dry his ass is, and he _can’t._ He lets out a sob. His eyes are wet. Jefferson’s going to make him do it anyway. He’s going to rip the plug out dry, and then he’s going to make Burr look at his red, puffy hole in the mirror, a ruby to match the one in the plug. _Pretty._

He braces himself for it, for the burst of agony, but it doesn’t come. Instead he feels something warm and slick and wet, pushing against his aching rim, and then sandpaper-roughness scraping his cheeks. He scrunches his eyes shut and bites his lip.

“Good,” Jefferson murmurs against his hole, and gives him another lick. Burr moans, quiet, into his arm. “That’s it. I’m gonna get you all nice and wet, so I can get this out of you.”

Burr whimpers. His hole is so sensitive even the lightest touch aches, and Jefferson’s not being gentle. He licks broad, sloppy strokes across Burr’s hole, focusing on getting him wet and nothing more. It’s a kindness, yes, but it’s an impersonal one, and Jefferson’s disinterest goes right to Burr’s cock.

The plug still hurts coming out. Burr bites his lip, and cries a little, and then Jefferson’s pulling his boxers and pants up and rubbing his back.

He has Burr sit on the couch while he fetches wet wipes from his vanity, and then cleans his face while Burr struggles not to flinch away. Jefferson’s being _sweet_.

“There,” he says, scrubbing the last of the tears from Burr’s cheeks. “All better.”

“Thank you,” Burr says, at Jefferson’s expectant look. His voice shakes and cracks and fuck, he thinks he might cry again. Jefferson leans in and kisses him warmly, then hands over the plug. It’s wrapped in a white handkerchief.

“You’ll need to clean it before you put it back in,” he says. “Make your excuses. I will be by your room at exactly twelve-thirty and I expect you to be ready for me.”

Burr nods. “I will.” That earns him another kiss, the gentleness at odds with Jefferson’s hand, palming him roughly through his clothes. Burr whimpers and tries to push closer.

“So desperate,” Jefferson says, pulling away. “I know, I know, it feels like you’ve been hard for hours. I just need you to ache a little longer, okay? And then I’ll take care of you, just like you need.”

God, he _needs._ He can’t wait. He’s been waiting _forever._ “Please.”

“Not yet,” Jefferson says. His expression is hard, and Burr knows he won’t be swayed. “You’ll come on my cock and not a second before.”

Burr nods again. Jefferson leaves, and he doesn’t watch him go. He can be patient; he _has_ been patient, all his life, and he hates how much more difficult Jefferson makes it. He takes a deep breath and forces his body to relax.

It takes a good ten minutes before he feels like he can face anyone without worrying about his dick. Which, ultimately, ends up being a waste of time, because three of his own Secret Service detail are waiting outside Jefferson’s door, ready to escort him to his car.

\-  -  -

(Later, he’ll panic, and he’ll demand Jefferson explain exactly _what_ he’s been telling Burr’s staff. Jefferson will claim he said nothing, only that the Senator had felt ill and Jefferson had allowed him the use of his own dressing room to lie down, and that the likely culprit was the airplane food, and he thought everyone knew not to eat airplane fish, and they really should get the Senator back to the hotel as quickly as possible--and no, no, doctors are not necessary, it’s just a bit of heartburn.

Burr won’t be sure whether or not to believe him.

It changes nothing.)

  



End file.
